


χρυσοποιία

by Aicosu



Category: Fortnite (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Character Study, Cocaine, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, How DO I TAG THIS!?, M/M, Midas is sentient/aware he is in a video game, Midas x Player One, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, Other, Player Character is ambiguous, Player character shifts gender/sexes per round, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Sex with Clothes On, Sexual Tension, Shameless Smut, Slight mention of Midas x Brutus, bisexual midas, gold used as sex restraints, gold used inappropriately
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:06:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25461397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aicosu/pseuds/Aicosu
Summary: Midas gets bored with routine and increasingly frustrated with his fate.
Relationships: Midas (Fortnite)/Reader, Midas/Player Character
Comments: 3
Kudos: 46





	χρυσοποιία

It’s that will-they won’t-they that drives him to his knees. 

That and fucking tactical shotguns. 

There’s a click, click, boom repetition to it all. A pattern of days as memorable as each patrol he takes around the agency, each step of all thirty staircases. Up, down, up, down, left, right. 

All according to programming, apparently. For entertainment. Sentience doesn’t allow him more than that to think on it like he could his own memories, artificial or scripted as they may be. So he doesn’t. 

He does think of those memories though. And there  _ is  _ variation. There is  _ him. _

There is the absolute  _ real  _ fear that if he let’s go of focus for even just a moment he could kill himself. 

Which is maddeningly annoying, when he dies damn near every day. 

“There you are.” They say.

He’s staring at the gold of himself in the black marble of the floor, obsidian and molten. He stops crawling. Crawling. Because he’s on his god. Damn. Knees.

Again.

But They’ve found him and this time They take the time to slide fingers beneath his shoulder straps and hoist him in the air. 

It’s a familiar feeling he’s always surprised by, boot tips sliding on the ground before swinging in the air. His hands scramble to Their wrists. 

They pop bubblegum in his face.

Shake him. 

His neck pinches, his stomach drops. 

Gravity and bullet wounds bring him back to the floor when he’s dropped.

He tries to keep eye contact even as they turn away and scan his datapad.

_ Ignore  _ him. 

He can feel his elbows weaken. Feels the pain spread to the middle of his shoulders. 

He grits his teeth and presses his fingers to the floor and wills it molten. Wants it gold.

I’m dead anyway. He tells himself. Urges himself. Tries once again to release that coded instinct to not be overwhelmed. To control every inch of himself. 

It pours like sunlight on his fingertips. Spilled paint to cover just a few inches. Following the grooves of the tile before spilling out. More. More. His throat tightens as he solidifies with the ground around him, but—

“Oops, almost forgot.” Their voice returns. 

The tactical shotgun reloads. 

And then he shatters to a million pieces. 

* * *

He wakes up in his office as always and snatches the decanter to his left on instinct, smashing it against the desk.

“Boss!?”

“STAY,” He yells over the clatter of glass crunching under his shoe. He quiets, “put.”

The jostling outside the door stops.

“...Yes, Sir.”

The system allows him his memories and this rage. And he thinks it an inefficient way to keep a drone motivated, but on and on  _ this long _ — perhaps there is no actual worry that leaving him with grudges and delusions of grandeur could help him break from this mold. So then it’s just cruelty. Or apathy.

He remembers the bubblegum.

Apathy, obviously. 

Routine is easy to snap into, at least. 

He ignores broken glass and the splattered, half-gold desk, a consequence of the scotch and his anger. An unconscious relief that won’t be enough. Not this time.

So he buzzes for exploitation from the intercom, requests a change in patrols, and loosens his tie. 

He’s tried cycles of  _ just drinking _ . Wasting away the time in a stupor. But it leaves him wobbly when They invade and he finds the last five minutes more important than the grueling hours of preparation beforehand. 

Drugs are more or less the same. Not that they reach much effect. Something about the gold in and around his skin and bloodstream maybe. Or maybe he, himself, took issue with anything weaker than ground down powders. 

Cocaine worked to heighten sensation. Which was obviously only a benefit depending on which sensation he wanted to feel with such emphasis. Failure, pain, and existential dread weren't exactly great snorted up his nose. 

So he fucks instead. 

He doesn’t always. Sometimes the end is nigh in a gentler way and he spends his time reading, or practicing in the shooting range, or actually following through with his bigger plans. Bigger plans he’d become a little disillusioned with when every day was the same day, but it’s the role, isn’t it? Sometimes he’s patient enough to be a good boy and  _ act. _

But sex was both amusing and experimental enough of a taboo to make him feel rebellious even if this was maybe (probably) scripted too. Maybe. He had proof that it was and proof that it wasn’t.

He didn’t sleep with his agents. Or he didn’t anymore. There was nothing immoral or unsatisfying about the experience per se, but they had their own  _ routine _ to adhere to and after the system vanishing Brutus from behind him mid-thrust, he wasn’t interested in such cold interruptions. 

Prostitutes then. The yacht seemed to have things like that on hand. Crime and corruption. There was a script of coding somewhere that was responsible and he was far past being curious to figure it out anymore. He was just thankful.

The gold though. 

His gold. 

It’s a multifaceted issue. 

It’s a system all it’s own. One based more on emotions, to his horrible chagrin. He has memories of it, and also none where it would truly matter. Named for the gimmick or the gimmick for the name? Who knows. 

Solid, hollow, coated, pierced, swallowed. It was about intensity. The colder you made water, the more solid it became. From the outside, in. The edges melt in the heat before the core is ever pressured.

Gold was the same. 

He could suck a layer of 24 karats from his fingers without ever hoping to make them malleable. 

That usually wasn’t the goal though. 

As soon as his hands wrap around her throat, she sweats bright metal beneath them. Her skin drips and she starts shivering. She can feel it, he can tell. Her eyes flicker down to the lethal paint she can’t see and then back up at him.

“W-wait—” She starts to say, but greed stops her. Literally and figuratively. Because he’s made the walls of her esophagus solid gold and because she’d realized she’s wearing a more expensive necklace now than what he agreed to pay her in cash. 

Her teeth grit. She breathes through her nose.

He blinks slowly to the pace he continues fucking her at. 

With her neck sculpted into his arm, his arm melted to the solid bedsheets and legs held in place on the floor, he can keep thrusting without ache. And he lets his body hang, let’s them both hang in the cradle of hot metal and luxury scrap. An organic suspension kit dripping at whim.

“I—,”

She’s worried. Midas rolls his eyes, tracing fingers up her jaw to coat her lips closed. 

_ Relax.  _ He thinks with a furrowed brow. And wonders not for the first time if he’s the only one on the island with memories to know this just doesn’t matter. 

Her eyes go wide and frantic but he doesn’t see it, because he’s closed his own and lets himself get hot. Get close. 

Sweat, gold, pools at his neck, drops to her naked body and his own, spotting the sheets and making him feel so taut and so flexible at the same time. 

Smelted. 

He'd laugh if he wasn't already out of breath. 

She's not as tight or as hot as the edges of his own gold encasing him, but different enough that the contrast of soft and smooth, loose and wet, bound and free makes his jaw lock and his fingers curl and his body start to solidify. 

He's close, so close, his hips jerk and gold slides down his stomach. Crawls up his cheek. 

He'll go solid and die. He thinks. His heart hammers against gold as his lungs grow heavy. Blood begins to stop.

His breath is raspy. 

Her breasts don't move, her eyes have to close. She's almost gone too. 

He tells himself it doesn't matter. He'll wake up at his desk and smash a glass-like always. But he thinks of Them. 

He cums. 

Gold slides slick off him down his wrists. Patting the sheets in dings like water off metal. 

She gasps right after him and falls free to the solid bed she thuds against.

Later, when he's strapping his shirt to his garters and he notices her fingering the mess of gold swathed on her collarbone, she turns, nervous but insistent. 

"Can I keep it?" She asks. 

He's already shaking his head, reaching out to pull her skin free and warm his fingertips. It seeps into him like syrup in reverse. 

She slouches in her seat as it does. 

He slides his pants on and flicks his vest in the air to banish the wrinkles before saying anything else. 

"Get out."

* * *

He wastes the rest of his time assembling his gun, hips against his command table and fingers on the cartridge, he carefully encases each piece in gold until it's shiny and perfect.

It's a meticulous process to gild every bullet of a Tommy gun, but again, it's a  _ waste  _ of time he indulges.

He could keep fucking. Or change dossiers on future targets he'll never see. Have his men reinforce the ceiling since it always seems to go first. Maybe fool proof those pathetic turret systems.

But he wants his energy for himself this time. 

Sometimes that works. 

He's killed Them before, of course. 

Sometimes the same day ends with him ordering a cleanup and sipping a scotch as he watches the sunset on the island. He still wakes up at his desk the morning earlier, but it tastes different. Victory. 

Tastes like a different brand of the script that's equal parts boring and satisfying. And he's not sure which of those emotions is pre-programmed. 

But the infuriating part of winning is winning. There are no prisoners then. No Them on Their knees. No humiliating shakedown and "Oops, I almost forgot," shots from the hip to the head. 

There's only the melt of his bullets into Them and Their unyielding expression for seconds until They’re just gone. It's a high that crashes pretty fast. 

He wants Them the way They get  _ him.  _ Crawling.

Wants Them beneath his fingertips so he can solidify Their ever-changing appearance into one he understands. Wants to prop Them up in his trophy room, hollow. Awake and alive and well and knelt there like a perfect little prostitute to use later. 

Yes.

Because there is no denying that the one place he truly wants to  _ let go _ , is the carnal one. Because what is being alive, being sentient, being a reasoning creature that isn't just stuck on repeat through simulation without pleasure? What is freedom if not indulgence? 

And what is pleasure to someone like him that couldn't experience it without risk? Without pain.

What is pain to someone on the tightrope of self-control but release? 

And lashing belts around his own neck to jerk off to, screwing greedy incompetent prostitutes, or fucking equally frustrated and confused agents, couldn't meet him where he wants. 

Not like Them. The true equal in this never-ending day. The only one who also seemed to  _ see.  _ That  _ understood. _

"We're reporting activity in the island's atmosphere." A voice buzzes from the comm table. 

Midas glances at the holo map with disinterest. 

They approach in different directions and different speeds, every time. But is it truly different? When there are only so many ways it can end? 

He slides the drum past the catch and spins it to click into place. Loaded. 

"Put a sniper on the roof." He allows himself to say. Like a puppet content with its strings. Or a politician reading a teleprompter. He reads the dialogue already prepped in his subconscious. The sniper doesn't do shit. He knows it. 

"Yes, sir." 

Destroy the chopper. He wants to say. Evacuate the premises. Drain the lake. Open hatches and cover this entire fucking place with proximity mines. 

His teeth lock in place and his tongue doesn't move. 

He rolls his eyes and kicks off the table to start his rounds. 

Might at well let the show start. 

It will make  _ him _ start, regardless.

* * *

"Second floor! I heard something!" 

No shit. The words aren't allowed to come out of his mouth though. So instead it's, 

"Send up teams of two." 

Not three, or five. It's always two. Pre-programmed incompetence just weak enough to lose odds and just forceful enough to win. A perfect 50/50. Even if it did feel like he did more dying than he cared for.

It doesn’t last long anyway. 

In comparison to the droll of every day, the same day, the hours leading up to the inevitable infiltration and destruction of his Agency that ticked by slower than the rolling storms on the horizon, the final confrontation is only a frustrating whirlwind of about ten minutes. 

The upper floor blows with a grenade, not completely surprising him, but scattering the agents around him in a frenzy. 

He latches a hand around the neck of one, yanking and spilling gold at once to solidify the buffoon into a shield, just in time.

Debris and bullets cascade on the new statue and Midas ducks low, elbows in, waiting for the stream to run out into a reload. 

"Orders, sir!?" 

"Get out of my fucking way." 

The two cronies back off as he leans out to aim the tommy gun at the ceiling and unload into the vents.

The pings ricochet in a jackhammer line down the metal, dusting white smoke and drywall into the air. 

Should have snorted at least a line. 

His heart is in his throat. Gold seeps up his collar to his jaw. 

"Come out." He calls to the empty ceiling. "You're there. I know you are." 

I know you  _ know  _ too. He thinks. I know you're here for me. For the gun. For the vault. For a victory screen, I can't prove is real. 

There are running thuds above him, crossing the hallway.

He chases after, shoes clacking metal on marble as he follows. 

A shadow dances on the upper ledge of the twisting stairs and he slides to a stop and showers bullets at its shape. Ambiguous and changing, he can't make out what They look like this time.

They stop, crouching, hands spreading and body ready. 

Gold seeps onto his vest, across his chest like hot water or blood.

They retreat again and he leaps the stairs two steps at a time. 

His tommy gun tears into the steps They leave behind, destroying the door They pull open as They dive into an empty office. 

His breath is held in his teeth, hair tickling his forehead with sweat. Not gold yet. 

It's rare. That it's ever a chase. Rare to have moments when the novelty of the upper hand overwhelms his senses. 

When he flings the office door open after them and aims his gun, he comes face to face with Their stoic expression, eyes wary but bold, hands thick, raised. Their assault rifle obnoxiously clicking on empty. 

It takes every ounce of his adrenaline to pour gold into his finger to still it from pulling the trigger. Everything in his strings, his code, his script, is telling him to shatter Them into pieces. 

But it's not what  _ he  _ wants. 

"Whoa, Midas' is leaking." They say, voice deeper this time. 

He's shaking, resisting a system beyond what he understands, and he is, actually, leaking. 

Gold splatters the floor below him like drips of paint, loose and messy. It stains down his suit, across his shoes, metal shavings dusting tile as he crosses the space. It's incremental. It takes all his willpower. All his control. 

But he's well-practiced with control. 

The tommy gun drops to the floor. 

"You're fuckin' glitched!" They curse. 

He huffs, fingers fisting, knees bending. 

He tackles Them. 

It's easy because Their surprise and confusion leave Them unguarded, and it's also the hardest thing he's ever done because his mind and gut seem to argue with him to follow his orders. Stick to the system. 

It's also unbecoming. 

They wrestle him in Their arms, cussing loudly, both of them scrambling hands over each other's faces and twisting, slamming into a desk and then a file cabinet. 

"What the fuck!? What the fuck, you NPC shit—" 

Midas gets fingers around Their throat and presses heat, liquid, into their neck. 

"AH!" 

A punch slams into his jaw, and it sends his gravity to the side, to the floor, where gold spills from his skin as he skids against it. 

He heaves, feeling his control bleed out. He's burning up. But he ignores it to push upwards. 

Only for a hand to slam his head into the floor and a body to weigh down his arm on his back. Squished. Smelted. This time he actually laughs. He sounds insane. Had he actually taken drugs this cycle and didn't remember? 

"You're broken," They say. Winded. Panting above him. 

"Yes," He hisses, white eye sliding to glare from the corner of his vision. He sees black. A blurry grin. 

A knee pressed into his back. 

This was worse than the crawling. 

But also better. 

He struggles, shoes scuffing on the ground beneath them to find purchase. But it's useless. 

Their form this cycle is wide. Tall. Heavy. He can feel it in the thick of Their fingers pushing into his cheek. Or the ones that curl into his hair and lift him up. 

"What a mess." They laugh, watching gold drip down his face. 

His eyes flicker and he lets go. Lets go of the adrenaline, the determination, the control. Until all he has is lazy content. 

And so his hair shines gold, entangling their fingers. A silk trap that had them turning him onto his back and shaking him. 

"Christ! What the fuck!? Let go!" 

He just smiles beneath them. 

If he can't win Them as his trophy he'd just die as one. 

They pull back, yank, tug, but it only gets worse as he solders Them to the floor too.

They punch him in the face with Their free hand. 

It feels good. 

He spits but is still smiling, and They notice. 

"What a piece of work! You were always a bitch to kill but this is ridiculous." 

"You're always  _ easy _ to kill." 

He's punched again for the lie. Gold smears Their knuckles and They gasp, shaking Their wrists. 

"It's hot—!" 

Midas tries to drag his knees up to Their waist, but They feel it, straddling him with heavy hips and a pointed glare to match. 

"I don't think so, asshole." 

So he lets the gold seep into his ankles, his pants, his elbows, falling from his fingertips as he drops his hands to their shoulders. 

"Stop it! You're not winning with this crazy shit!" 

That free hand finds his neck and squeezes and the heat burns but goes cold and he feels control seep into his teeth, snapping his eyes open in concentration.

Just so he could feel what his skin on Their skin feels like. 

The fingers in his hair move, slicking back to make him stretch. His back arches. 

"Oh, really?" They laugh. 

"Please—" 

"This game just got way better." 

The hand on his throat stays, tight, and so big he can't move his jaw, but the other trails roughly down his cheek to his chest. They yank out his tie and snap open buttons with the experienced, tactical gestures of reloading a gun. 

His eyes close, maintain focus, breathe through wanting to drown solid, as linen and cotton slide free from his neck, his shoulders. 

Air kisses sweat—metal when his chest is exposed. 

"The tattoos go everywhere do they?" 

He grits his teeth. Says nothing. Not only because he doesn't want to give his manhandling any attention, but also because he  _ can't.  _

They run circles around the rules that seem to keep his tongue weighted. The code that stills his mind from even thinking of words or vocabulary not pre-scripted. 

It takes all of his spite and intelligence to think through the safeguarded code to spit out, "I'm a game to you?" 

Hands fist at his belt, flipping and yanking it hard enough that his hips raise up to Theirs. Pants loose now, a hand slides down to feel his dick where it stiffens along his thigh. 

Midas twists beneath Them. 

"Yeah. You are." 

They unbuckle their own pants and let them fall when they loom over him.

"Fuck you." He spits. Because it's what he already knew. What he feared and hated. But also exactly what he wants. 

"No." They smile, pulling his slacks down and snatching a fistful of his hair again. "Fuck—" They turn him by his head to his side. Press his face to the floor to whisper, "you." 

He feels skin on skin. Hips pressing at his thighs. Fingers on his waist, dragging him down. Gold bleeds on the floor. His heart hammering away slows as his body gets heavy with gold in places he can't focus on. His ears are solid, drowning out sound.

But his dick is malleable, even stiff and erect. And the hand and fingers pressing at his ass give to nothing but wet softness. No gold. Not yet. He makes sure. 

And then it's the will-they won't-they that kills him.

Because They bring the tip of a hot cock between his legs and drag it, wet and pulsing, up the sensitivity of his taint to rest, pressed against his asshole. 

"Wasting time," he pants and tries not to eye the objects around them gleaming gold as the floor spills upward from where he's splayed. 

"You're not gonna last long." 

Midas burns a fire in his eyes. Lets his body tighten to metal. But They just grin. 

And fuck him. 

It's slow only for seconds. And then it's like always. Where the last five minutes of the day are faster and more important than every hour before. 

It's everything. So much. All of it. Hot, wet, hard, fast, slow, soft, the pull, the push. The give and take. From the gold shining and shimmering across his skin. There and gone again, over and over. Tight and hot and then liquid and loose. 

He's full and empty, fucked, left, filled, pushed.

They tower over him, legs planted over his and angled to fuck him just right as he lays on his side, pushed into the floor like a tool. A crawling thing laid low. Shaken down for vault card keys and a quick cum. 

"So..! Hot—" 

Midas can feel Their breath on his neck. 

"Don't—" he tries. 

Their hand falls from his hair to his cheek, fingers wrapping sloppy around his mouth. 

"Shut up." 

He opens wide to tell them to fuck off. 

They slip fingers into his mouth. 

He breathes shakily around them.

Their dick strokes a slow rhythm his body rocks too. A painful slow and then a painful fast. They hum to it, thrusting harsher every time They hitch their breath on that exact angle, that just right, perfect stroke—

"Ungh—" 

Midas shivers at the noise and his lips collapse on Their fingers. He sucks them gold. It melds his mouth shut, even as They move fingers against his tongue. 

Gold encases his thighs, his waist; bondage ropes of metal coats over Them too. Trails of liquid gold tighten around Their waist, straps around Their dick. 

"Fuck!!"

He's drowning. He's gonna die. This is it. The control is there but it's not really. He feels his leg go solid, falling to the floor with a clang. His lungs are tight in ribs made of gold. He can feel his head soak in it. He's gonna die. 

"Don't." They hurry, twisting the messy, lewd statue that is Their fingers in his mouth so They can hiss close to his face. “Let me finish.”

Midas feels his insides tighten around Their dick at the command. 

There’s gold on the ceiling. He sees it as his eyes go blurry and his limp, rocking body starts to push back as he continues to turn solid. 

“Let me finish, Midas.” 

He doesn’t have a goddamn choice in the matter anymore. 

But he can’t really hear them either. And he can’t answer except to suck harder. He just feels hot and tight, leaking cum from his own dick onto the floor, ready to shatter to a million pieces from a tactical shotgun that’s not coming. 

Instead, he’s suddenly encircled, enveloped as They pull his chest up towards them and cum, groaning, and Midas moans too but with a mouth full and shut. Full and solid and complete. His eyes go dark as wet metal covers them. 

“Fuck, dammit—” They shake, and still. And he can imagine that stoic face in a smile this time. A smile held in place as They say, “You win this one.” 

The gold hits his heart, or covers his veins, or closes his throat—whatever it is that finally takes him out. Shattering to a million pieces with Them, in a gold plated room.

* * *

He wakes up in his office as always.

He’s standing there, looking down at the decanter and his glass of scotch. 

It’s quiet and he breathes easy, turning to see the storm far, far on the horizon. 

Midas watches it for some time. The purple haze and the bright lightening nothing but miniature specks looking content over a still ocean. He watches for as long as he can.

Until the internal script itches at his legs to move in accordance with his routine. 

He doesn’t fuck or snort cocaine though. 

He checks in with his agents, rectifies security on his turrets, and uses the command table to plan for new outposts across the map. He reads his dossiers and sends reports down to engineering. 

He still gilds his drum gun in gold and every single one of his bullets. 

But this time…

"Second floor! I heard something!" 

“Send down teams of two.”

“Sir?” The Ghost helmet cocks in confusion at his words. 

Midas hates repeating himself but does so slowly.

“Send. The teams. Downstairs.”

The loophole in his words is subtle enough to cheat the system. And his henchmen are dumb enough to listen. They leave. 

He climbs the stairs, locking the drum gun into place. 

He walks the hallway to the empty office. 

There’s no noise, no indication of intrusion, but he knew a long time ago the vents from the lake were easily infiltrated. They knew that too. 

The office is dark. And it’s not drowning in gold furniture or gold ceilings.

Not yet.

“There you are.”

A rough thud hits him from behind, his shoes slide on the tile and he drops the gun even as he lunges, coding already pulling his instincts to back up and shoot, and kill. 

Instead, he hits the wall with Them in his fists, pushing Their new body up against a wall. Gold heats in his palms as he smelts their arm and shoulder in place. 

“Damn, you  _ are _ broken as fuck!” 

Their eyes are different. Their hair is darker. They’re shorter. This time, he towers over that confident smile and that cocky attitude.

He says nothing, just lets gold drip down his forearms as his hands pull Their shirt over Their chest. Eager like a rookie addict to try all the different ways he could enjoy this. Hurrying already to the next cycle, and the next after that, now that he knew he could have this. Have Them.

“Fuck, you in a hurry?”

“ _ I’m not gonna last that long _ .” He repeats back to them.

They laugh.

He kisses and bites down Their neck.

“This game is great.”

He agrees. 

Maybe he can’t play it himself.

But fuck if he won’t at least be played with.

  
  



End file.
